


Colors Bleed

by vextant



Series: Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Implied Relationships, Prompt Fill, Read into it however you want, Tagged "Chose Not to Use" because Author is Unsure if One Applies, because of said ambiguous/open ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vextant/pseuds/vextant
Summary: Lower Manhattan, 1920. New York stockbroker James Barnes gets a call from the past and follows up.





	Colors Bleed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intensescreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intensescreaming/gifts).



> Prompt was: Bucky/Natasha
> 
> This got out of hand, as usual. It almost became a Bonnie & Clyde AU, but I figured that was really low-hanging fruit for these two. Have something a titch more obscure instead.

**_Manhattan, September 1920_ **

James Barnes reflexively loosens his tie as he stepped into the dim, smoky club. He’d traded the neat wool suit of a junior stockbroker for a pair of slacks with a shirt and tie. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and neither his shirt nor slacks had been pressed. He didn’t bring a jacket.

His caller had been  _ very  _ specific. 

Part of him doesn’t want to believe it’s really her, really  _ here _ . It’s been so many years since the front he’d half convinced himself that Natalia Romanova was a dream. The world is finally starting to settle again after the chaos of the War - he’d gotten himself a comfortable job, running numbers down at the Exchange, maybe passing a tip here or there to those who asked nice enough. He hasn’t even thought about having a rifle in his hands in months.

No one gives him a second look except for a blonde at the bar. She was pretty, he supposed, but not who he was here for. He keeps scanning the room, and the doubt blossoms in his gut that maybe he’d been strung along.

He sidles up to the half-empty bar and takes a seat, drumming his fingers on the wood top while he debates whether or not to order. The blonde was still looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She was aware of his eyes on her this time, got up to slide right next to him.

It clicks in his head, then, like a stuck gear sliding back into motion.

"I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says, because the last time he’d seen her, her hair had been red like fire, like blood. Part of him missed it. 

Natalia purrs, “That’s the idea, James. How’ve you been?”

Her accent is gone, rounded out like she’d burned away the sharp, sly foreigner and healed over smooth as the sweet, demure All-American girl.

“Doing well. Work, you know. What brings you to town?”

“I’ve been here a while, for work,” she says with a tone that he knows doesn’t welcome further questioning.

“Aw, and here I thought you’d resurfaced just for me.” He’d been hoping, actually, but he knows her better than to think her world revolves around him. Her cause relies on connections and subterfuge, being in the right place at the right time, whispering the right words into the right person’s ear. 

The bartender slides two rocks tumblers towards them, despite neither of them having ordered anything. Natasha takes one and slides the other in his direction, “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, James.”

He lifts the glass and the smell of alcohol - real bourbon, Christ, he could cry at the thought - hits his nose. He hadn’t considered himself a big drinker, before, but the whole country’s gone dry for near nine months now and he’s never in his life wanted a drink so bad. The flavor spreads out over his tongue; warmth hits the back of his throat and settles contentedly in his stomach.

“Thank you for calling, Natalia,” he smiles, and because he’s feeling honest, he says, “I missed you.”

She smiles back at him but it’s a little sad, and he suddenly has the feeling that whatever she lured him here to say can’t be good. 

“It’s Natasha now. James-”

“You didn’t ask me here for my company, did you.” It isn’t a question. The warmth in his belly turns steely, like molten metal instead of alcohol. He sighs and turns to face the bar proper, takes another sip, and stares at his reflection in the mirror behind the bottles.

“I came here to warn you, because I care about you.”

He misses the first part entirely because of the gravity of the second. Natalia -  _ Natasha _ Romanova, or whatever her surname is now, is not an emotive person until she needs to be. Which means she’s either telling the truth, or trying to manipulate him. Or both.

If she sees any of this on his face she ignores it. “You can’t go into work on Thursday.”

“Right to the chase, huh?” He says, and it’s bitter like the bourbon but a touch more venomous.

“ _ James _ ,” says Natasha, “Please. Promise me.”

“You come crawling out of the woodwork after  _ two years _ just to tell me that?” Anger simmers, hot and bubbling, in his chest. He should’ve known, but he spits out, “Alright, I’ll bite. Why?”

“You have no idea what I’m risking to tell you this much.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “I though your  _ friends _ might have something to do with it.”

He still glances around for eavesdroppers, because while he’s miffed at her, it doesn’t mean he wants to sell out her cause. The Bolsheviks are planning something, then - it’s not surprising. And, for whatever reason, she wants him out of their way. 

“It’s not the Party,” she says softly, “Someone else. We don’t know much.”

“And what, they’re going to topple Wall Street?” He scoffs. Finishes the drink. Whatever’s being planned, it won’t be big enough. The finance district is too big, too spread out between too many buildings, too many thousands of dollars passing hands every passing minute, for anything any small-scale anarchist could cook up to make a difference. 

He should’ve known it was ‘work’, should’ve known she wasn’t really here for him. She’d done her research before laying her trap. The Natalia he knew was nothing if not thorough. She probably knew exactly where he worked, who he worked for, his home address. To her he was a mark, not an old friend.

“James,” she says, so genuine and soft that he almost wants to believe her, “Promise me.”

“Thanks for the drink,  _ Natasha _ .” He gets up from his stool and storms on his heel, leaving her there alone.

  
  


 

He goes to work on Thursday. It’s loud, busy, he almost rips some poor kid’s head off for misreading the ticker tape. All in all, normal. His boss asks him to an early lunch. He says yes, because he’s been loyal for a year and a half and smells promotion. It’s everything he can do to keep himself from grinning like a loon as he and Mr. Pierce (“Alex, please.”) step onto the street.

He’s just in time to watch the whole intersection go up in flames.

 

 

_ On Thursday, September 16, 1920, a bomb went off at the corner of Broad and Wall streets, just across from the New York Stock Exchange. Hundreds of injuries were reported in the wake of the blast, and at least thirty people were killed. No one was ever indicted. _

**Author's Note:**

> Challenged myself to keep to what I already knew about the event and the sociopolitical context of it. Therefore, no research was done and I apologize for any historical inaccuracy.
> 
> Liked this fic? Feel free to drop a comment - and [here's the tumblr post](https://vextant.tumblr.com/post/172727460746/oh-dude-do-a-buckynat-historical-thing-hell-yeah) for easy liking and/or reblogging if you're so inclined.
> 
> Want a fill of your very own? [Send me a prompt](https://vextant.tumblr.com/ask)!


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